


We Fall Like Love

by Vivian



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Daddy Issues, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:27:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil grows distant. Legolas tries to get closer.<br/>Something unexpected happens. They try to deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Fall Like Love

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [We fall like love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3440228) by [Catalina_Erantzo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catalina_Erantzo/pseuds/Catalina_Erantzo)



> This just sorta happened. I regret nothing.

 

**0**

 

In the shadows of Mirkwood many secrets lie hidden.

Beneath cedar and oak, mingling with the dust of decades, stamped into the earth. Within corridors, some untouched for centuries, there are whispers. Whispers of treachery, whispers of greed, of unnameable desires. But nobody dares to listen.

 

**1**

 

There are two basic forces in life, his father tells him when he is but a child.

To produce and heir and to survive. All our actions and desires, he says, are based on these instincts.

His father has a strong hand and is a strict teacher but over the centuries he grows distant. Legolas is not sure why, and maybe, he muses, it's simply a mood swing, drawn out over a few hundred years. He always wonders how time works for his father. When he opens his blue eyes, calm and cold, like ice on the surface of the sea, except that the sea never freezes.

He doesn't know whether his father is wise or just old. Whenever Legolas is with him, he feels like a mayfly. Unable to comprehend the age of this creature that he is the offspring of.

And it is with him as it is with all children, the more distant his father becomes, the stronger is the urge to please him. Make him proud. So he works hard. He reads the old books until the morning light creeps into his chambers, dust tumbling in the lazy rays. He trains with sword and bow until he's exhausted and so tired he can't move for a week. Only politics he finds difficult, to learn how to be kind and cruel. Or wise, how his father describes it. Then he sits with him in the thrown room, listens to the state affairs and never even murmurs a word. Here, his father is his king first. And he obeys, always.

He learns of the creatures in this world, the old ones and the new. He learns of men and dwarfs and orcs and all of them seem alien and strange to him. So short-lived, with heavy bodies and petty hearts. The dwarfs, his father says, are greedy creatures and to an extent that will, at some point, destroy them. He says it with indifference but in the corner of his eyes Legolas reads satisfaction.

 

Not long after that the dragon comes. Along with screams for help. Their alliance is still fresh with Thror, king under the mountain, and his father leads a small army away. And returns with all his warriors, not a scratch upon them. Legolas follows him to his chambers that night, head bowed, he enters and asks permission to stay. His father only nods.

He spoke to one of the soldiers earlier on. The officer told him of fire and wrath, of the smell of burning flesh. Of Smaug, the dragon. A body like a fortress, claws like spears and a hunger for gold, only stilled by his appetite for dwarfen flesh. His fire so hot they had felt it even at that distance. And there: a whole people being burnt and eaten.

“Why?” he murmurs. His father turns around, his champagne-coloured hair follows the motion. The warm candle light plays on his face, calm, indifferent. Shadows flicker underneath his dark brows, over his clean-cut jaw bones. His father looks at him, chin tilted upwards, then turns to a small table on which several crystal vials stand and pours himself a cup of wine. After a second he pours another and hands it over to him.

“Sit with me,” his father commands and lies himself down on silken cushions and fur. Legolas obeys and sinks down next to him. He nibs at the wine. It's strong and spicy, the taste unfolds on his tongue like a crimson flower that blooms long after midnight. Slowly he looks up to his father, even in this position he's taller than him.

“What forces are we determined by?” his father asks.

“Production of an heir and survival,” Legolas answers.

“Indeed. This is all you need to know.”

“I do not understand …”

His father's lips curl in what he knows is annoyance. Just ever so slightly, but he notices.

“I mean—” His father cuts him off with a swipe of his hand.

“Think, Legolas. What would have happened if I had interfered?”

“You would've fought the dragon.”

Now his father looks at him, eyes narrowed.

“You do not fight a dragon. Not when outnumbered in strength so obviously.”

Legolas is silent. He takes a sip of wine, then another.

 

**2**

 

The palace folk are inhabitants of caves. They spend most of their time in candle light. But all of them love the stars, and his father more than any.

These days it's seldom he sees his father in private. So his heart beats a little faster when he's sitting on the branches of an oak and notices him. It means that his father wants to be noticed for he could go unseen to anyone if he desired so.

The oak is one of the trees that surround a clearing, it's a rare sight in Mirkwood. The tree tops open up here and the night sky is visible from the ground. Legolas often comes here, but he's never seen his father before. Swiftly he climbs down the tree and approaches him who strides to the middle of the clearing.

“My Lord,” he says.

Thranduil tilts his head, he wears his crown of leaves and berries. In the starlight they are drops of silver.

“Look up, son,” he says. Legolas obeys.

“These stars, some of them are older than me, some are not and some are dead already.”

“Dead?”

“What you see is the past, my beloved one. Many centuries pass by until their light reaches us.”

Slowly he steps a little closer. His father's hand on his shoulder. Legolas closes his eyes, breathes in and trembles under his father's touch.

 

For a few minutes they stay like this. Our hours. He really cannot tell. Then Thranduil, his lord, his father, his king steps away. Without a word he goes and Legolas follows, because this is how it is.

In that moment he is no closer to Thranduil than to the stars.

His light is far away, but it guides him as it always has.

  
  
By other races they are called otherworldly. Alien. Impassioned.

It is strange when this particular desire hits him the first time. He stumbles backwards.

She is one of the musicians at court, her skin shimmers like silk, many describe her as fair and beautiful. But it's they way she plays the harp that makes him look at her. Controlled and perfect, yet with a roughness that gives more depth to the melodies.

For a month or two, he just watches and smiles at her. She doesn't smile back at first and it makes him angry and eager at the same time. After three months she smiles back. It doesn't take long from then on. They kiss and lay together.

Things like these are not talked about but they exist everywhere. And everybody knows.

 

Their tumble goes on for a bit longer. Then one day she is not at court anymore. The king himself dismissed her, he finds out. Legolas doesn't approach her after that.

In the evening he goes to his father's chambers and knocks on the door. His eyebrows knit together and fists clenched he enters.

Thranduil lies by the fire, on cushions and fur, cup of wine in hand. He doesn't even look up when Legolas steps forwards.

“You dismissed her.”

Now the corners of Thranduil's mouth move upward. The arch of his black lashes above the mockery in his blue eyes.

“By the Valar! Why did you do that?”

“Manners, Legolas,” his father says sharply and turns his gaze on him.

 Legolas presses his lips together and breaths in.

“Sit,” his father says but he doesn't. He stands and can't say a word he won't regret later and Thranduil knows it.

With a swift motion his father is on his feet and before him. Bent down to him so their faces nearly touch.

“You do not disobey me like that,” his father hisses. Then he has him against the wall, hand on his throat and blue eyes wide open. Adrenaline rushes through his veins. The hand on his throat lays there lightly, but the threat is clear enough. Never before his father has laid a hand on him, except in combat training.

This is the moment he would back down. Not this time.

“So you will punish me?” he says and it needs all the courage he can muster.

“I will do as I will,” his father says, voice smooth and calm.

“You have your affairs. Why can't I have mine?”

“Because you do as I command,” Thranduil says with a tilt of his head and lets go, but doesn't step back. Then his fingertips slide over Legolas' cheek and his thumb brushes over his lips.

More adrenaline in his veins. Heat crawls over his body like tongues of fire.

 

“Go now,” Thranduil says.

 

After that, something changes. He's not sure what.

The next maid he takes to bed has flaxen hair, like him, like his father and she's even sweeter than the musician. Again, she too is dismissed out of court after a few months. This time he doesn't go to his father.

He spends most of his time out in the woods now. Climbing the trees and securing their borders. There live many creatures in the woods, some of them old and ancient, silent and waiting. Others breed there that grow to hungry beasts. These they slay, Legolas and the guard. And the fighting and hunting takes his mind off things, the rush and hight of adrenaline when shooting an arrow and jumping from branch to branch while fighting. The blood that splashes on his face, stains his clothes and crumbs in his hair makes him feel alive.

 

There's a feast tonight. One of the many his people celebrate. They sit underneath the stars. Laughter and merriment, musicians play and soon the first start dancing. The wine flows richly and it's good wine. Spicy and thick like blood. Legolas drinks more than usual, but it takes some cups more until he feels the tingle in his hands and the pleasant dizziness in his head.

Their king sits at the head of the table, leisurely, slightly leaning to the right, legs crossed and an ever present cup of wine in his jewelled fingers. His champagne-coloured hair moving slightly with every tilt of his head. Legolas stares at the arch of his pitch-black lashes, then the space between nose and lips and the shadow above the amor-bow of his lips.

But the king of Mirkwood is in a bad mood and everybody knows. That morning he had sent ten elves to the dungeon, because they chose the wrong colour of silk for his garments.

Now, no one dares to speak to him if not spoken to first. Their king sits there, drinking, gazing at the stars every now and then until dark clouds move over the sky and block out the starlight.

 

It's three hours later that his father knocks on the doors to his chambers. With raised brows he recognises that Thranduil has discarded his guards. He lets him in and closes the door behind him. Thranduil strides in and lets his coat fall down to the floor before he turns around to face him. There is something dark in his eyes and wickedness in his smile. Without needing to be told Legolas comes closer, picks up the coat and folds the heavy, embroidered fabric over a cherry-wood chair.

Meanwhile his father has picked up a silver tray and now lays down on a canapé. When Legolas sits down on the other canapé he sees the small white lines of powder on the tray.

“What's that?” he asks and takes a closer look.

“Forbidden pleasure,” Thranduil whispers with a velvety voice. Legolas looks up at him, brows raised. But instead of an explanation his father hands him a tiny crystal pipe, as long as a finger.

“Into your nose, go on,” his father commands. For a second he hesitates. Then he does as he is told.

It burns in his nostrils at first. His father laughs lowly at him. Then Thranduil snorts the second line and lets the tray clatter to the floor. In a second Thranduil is bend down above him, his long hair cascading down his shoulders and now framing both their heads.

“It's something only a few are aware of,” he whispers into Legolas' ear and he starts to shiver, his father so close he can feel the heat of his body.

“It's elven bones, crushed to dust and mixed with an ancient poison. Like everything, measured correctly, it promises _bliss_.” The last word is but a hiss. Heat crawls down his body and he dares to frame his father's face with his hands. Fear and anticipation throbbing through his veins.

 

Thranduil's breath upon his lips, heavily lidded eyes, his gaze piercing him. And everything inside him screams when finally Thranduil bends down further and crushes their lips together.

His head spins, megalomania laughing in his blood. He feels like being bold and daring and so he opens up his lips and pushes his tongue into Thranduil's mouth. Soon he is pushed back and his father claims him. Efficiently, Thranduil opens his garments, faster than he himself could've done. Then he marvels at the sight and Legolas feels hot under his father's gaze. Long, strong fingers stroke over his chest, down to his hips. A strangled moan flees from his lips as Thranduil goes down, his hot mouth on Legolas' skin.

Inch by inch Thranduil pulls down Legolas' leggings until finally he frees his arousal. He doesn't know what happens in his head when he feels himself engulfed in wet heat. Head thrown back he writhes underneath Thranduil's ministrations. Suddenly, he is turned around. Fingers digging into his hips, he is slightly pulled upwards. Kisses on his lower back, then his cheeks are parted. Hot breath. And a tongue that seeks its way inside him. His eyes roll back under their lids.

 

He doesn't know where he is when Thranduil stops. He is not even sure who he is. But he turns around, burning and yearning and delirious and gets up. Then he's on the bed, naked skin on silken sheets. His father follows, undresses slowly in front of him. He's perfect, perfect. A warrior, muscular but slim, hard ivory skin, painted warmly by the candle light. Flickering, smooth shadows and light reflexes.

He's on the bed now and Legolas pushes him down into the sheets. His fingers tremble and yes, he is afraid. But the voice of reason is silenced by the poison, or maybe by his own desire. It doesn't matter. Then he touches him, like a lover, like a thief. And Thranduil sneers and in the arch of his lips there is no place for virtues anymore.

  
It feels wrong and something in the back of his mind pleads to stop this monstrosity. But how can he when it's all he wants. And it is too late now.

Slicked fingers that slowly enter him, he doesn't know where the fluid comes from, but he doesn't care either. His body arches into the touch, painful at first, then shivers run down his spine.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs before he can think better of it. Thranduil's smile is all teeth.

  
He writhes underneath him, watches with glassy eyes how Thranduil's lips form a moan, a sigh, when he pulls out and thrusts in again. It hurt at first, but now all he feels is the need for more. So he pushes his father off, pushes him into the sheets and moves on top of him, legs left and right to his hips, and sinks down. Hands at his hips, urging him to move and he does, he moves.

  
Sweat glistens on their skin, he bends down and Thranduil's whispers are breathless and filthy. The rings on his father's fingers are cold against his skin when he touches him. He leaves traces. Scratches and flowers that will bloom in blue and yellow later. He is close to him now. Thranduil is not a guide anymore. He's not a star. He is a forest fire and Legolas no more than a young tree.

And as fires do, they burn and burn until all is destroyed and nothing but cinders are left.

So he sighs and screams, pushing himself up and down, Thranduil's cock sliding in and out of him.

Suddenly his father sits up, an arm around Legolas' waist, the other on his arousal. They are eye to eye now.

“Look at me,” Thranduil all but hisses. And he does, looks at the slightly parted lips of his king, his flushed cheeks and the drop of sweat that leisurely rolls down his temple. He leans forward and catches it with the tip of his tongue. Then he grabs his father's shoulders and uses them to push himself up and down again.

“Yes like this.” Thranduil's voice is breathless, his lips form a small O, a mute moan, then his eyes roll back under his lids before his eyes flutter shut. The hand on Legolas' hip grabs him harder, their movements become rougher. Then Thranduil comes deep inside him.

  
He's not sure what will happen now. Heavy breathing in the air. His own arousal painful.

With a swift motion his father has him on his back. So there he lies, adrenaline rushing through his veins once more, anticipation tingling in his belly. He is afraid, too.

Thranduil looks down on him now, his long hair in disarray, sticking to the sweaty skin on his shoulders. He brushes it back and with the same smoothness lets his hand slide down Legolas' body.

“What do you want me to do?” he murmurs, voice low.

“Touch me,” Legolas breathes, hesitantly, pleading.

“With what?”

“Any-anything!” He averts his gaze, turns his head on the pillow. Shame and desire hot on his face.

“Tell me, Legolas. With my hand …” Thranduil moves a little closer, his lips brush the tip of his ear. “... or with my tongue?”

“T-tongue,” he all but stutters.

  
The next moment he feels his father's hot breath on his thighs, then he mouths at the tip of his cock, licks a stripe along the shaft. Legolas has to force himself to clench the bed sheets between his fingers and not Thranduil's hair.

Then he's inside that hot, wet mouth and Thranduil sucks and swallows around him. When he looks down to him, his cheeks hollow while sucking, before he slides up and down his length again. The heat crawls down his body, he feels like boiling, as if there was lava inside him instead of blood.

When he comes, Thranduil pulls away ever so slightly. A part he swallows, but there is still pearly seed, staining his left cheek, a bit of it in his hair. The rest smeared over his lips and drops down his chin. And he smiles.

 

When the sweat on their bodies starts to cool, he is still there. He lies unmoving. Realisation hasn't hit him yet. That will happen later. For now he just watches how his father gets up, half licks his seed away, half cleans his face with a silken cloth. He knows full well: This is the moment in the eye of the storm. When suddenly everything is silent, but the world is being torn apart.

“Do not think too much,” his father's voice reaches him as if from far away. He is calm, nonchalant. Way too calm for what just happened.

“How could I not?” he whispers and the storm moves on. He can't breath.

And yes, this is the moment realisation hits him. Like a blow of an orc sword, heavy and poisonous.

 

With a quick stride his father is at the bed again. And for a second his lips twitch. Will he laugh? Is that madness flickering in the corner of his eyes?

But his thoughts are silenced by Thranduil's hand on his cheek.

“Nothing has changed,” his father whispers and he does not comprehend. Now, Thranduil frames his face with his hands.

“Hush, nothing has changed.”

 

**3**

 

It is, of course, a lie.

Everything has changed. His values crumble down, along with all the believes he had thought save and sound, nourished over centuries. Now, their dust rises and he cannot see what lays ahead of him, nor what it is he has left behind. Adulthood hits him unexpectedly and roughly. It throws him into a world he had thought he knew, when in fact he had not. Lost he stumbles in the dust of the old, trying to get hold of something, anything.

Admidst it all Thranduil extends his hand, gracefully. So he takes it.

 

They wander deep into the woods. It's dangerous, even for two warriors and more so for the king and his only heir. But they need the wide sky above them when they climb the tops of the trees. And in the blackness and nothingness of the night sky, pierced by a million of stars, scattered like silver dust on a canvas of dried black ink … here their sins are nothing but a whisper. Swallowed by time.

They sit together and Legolas shivers. Cold wind is blowing, ruffling through the yellow-red leaves beneath and around them. Thranduil's face is tilted upwards, starlight sharpening all the edges. He looks beautiful and ancient. Calm and cold, like a marvel statue underneath a thin layer of ice.

And Legolas is afraid of him. Because he has never seen him like this, never so far away while knowing how close they can be. Never so beautiful and knowing if he dared to reach out—he could touch. And most afraid he is of himself. Because he might.

 

The sky is still dark, but times passes them by quickly. When Thranduil finally turns his head and looks at him, from beneath his black, arched lashes—Legolas holds his breath.

“We are who we are.There is nothing foul in taking what you desire. Not if you must endure as long as this world exists,” his king says. They are closer now, he looks up at Thranduil, his face calm, half-lidded eyes, and lips slightly parted, without any pressure, so clear and yet dreamy. No, not dreamy, that's the wrong word. More like gazing into the distance. And maybe that's just how you look when you've seen millennia pass you by. He doesn't know, he never might, but there are Thranduil's fingers brushing over his cheek. Then he bends down to him and kisses his forehead.

“I'm not sure I know who I am,” he confesses. Now his father smiles.

“Finding out who you are is a quest you must take more than only once. It is a privilege to have enough time to find out again and again,” and Thranduil says it as if it was a generosity. With a noble tilt of his head.

“I'm not sure I want to know …”

“Do not waste your time with being scared of who you might be,” Thranduil says.

“How can I not?”

His father's dark, thick brows move closer together, his lips curl ever so slightly. Legolas' heart skips a beat.

“And do not disappoint me, son.”

His father turns away from him. If he was but a child, tears would've burnt in his eyes by now. But he's not a child anymore.

“I fear you,” it takes all his courage to speak these words. His father turns around again.

“That's how it _is_ between father and son,” he says, eyes wide.

 

They do not speak in private after that. Thranduil is his king and he does what he is told. He commands the guard, thinks about more efficient strategies to keep the woods clean, or, at least save.

The leaves crumble on the ground, brittle and dry, the branches are bare. Like skeletons, robbed of their flesh, yet alive, yet just waiting. The days grow shorter and in the night dark clouds lay heavy in the sky. Snow starts to fall, softly at first, then it goes on and on for weeks.

Outside the storm is howling and crying, a white nightmare that wakes the old creatures in their caverns. There are whispers in the air, not to be heard but felt.

 

Legolas is in the training room, sword in hand and moves quickly, quietly and practises. There is no-one with him, but in his head he fights with an orc he very nearly fell pray to once.

Suddenly there is a real blade underneath his chin. Warmth behind him.

“You are careless, Legolas,” his father scolds coolly.

With a swift motion he escapes him, steps back— and attacks.

  
It's like dancing, step by step, move by move. He needs to concentrate! He might not be fighting an orc, but his father knows no mercy either. And so they dance.

It comes, as he knew it would. At some point he makes a false step and his father swipes his feet off the ground. Legolas tries to move away, but Thranduil pins him down, blade at his throat again. Thranduil looks at him, head slightly tilted, long hair cascading down his shoulders. So calm as if he had been sitting and reading and just looked up. His breath is even.

A breathing statue, Legolas thinks.

“My Lord,” he says, voice steady, eventhough his chest is heaving up and down quickly.

Thranduil lets go. Legolas stands up and tugs the sword away. He doesn't know what to say or what to do. Adrenaline still rushes through his veins.

“Come with me,” Thranduil says.

“No,” he says.

Now Thranduil's lips arch into a smile. The next second Legolas is pressed against the wall, arms twisted on his back. He bares his teeth and knits his eyebrows together, but Thranduil just laughs at his face, lowly. There is something in his eyes, something wicked. And with cold shock he realises that he likes it.

“Let me go,” he demands nevertheless.

“You don't want to be freed,” Thranduil whispers, “you want me to do however I please.”

It is only for a second that Thranduil is careless. But it is all he needs to slide out of his grip and take a few steps back. His heart beats fast and hard against his ribs. His king looks upon him and sneers. A waking beast.

He doesn't know what he should do. He only knows what he wants to.

But there is no time for doubt, no time for dwelling with Thranduil striding towards him with a razorblade-sharp smile.

Fleeing or fighting.

Legolas always was a warrior first.

  
He can hear his own heartbeat. So fast. His body tense, his vision clear.

This is his king, his father, his lord. And he grips his chin, tilts his face upwards.

Legolas stares into these pallid eyes. When did the ice turn into blue flames? When did Thranduil start to burn for him? His own flesh and blood.

“What of mother?”

 

The words hang in the room. Like a scream, silencing everything else. Thranduil's hand falls down, his eyes widen in shock. They haven't said her name since the day she left. And speaking of her, Legolas knows, is the most hideous atrocity.

“How dare you?” his father whispers.

He doesn't answer, he doesn't move. He just stands there, staring at his king. His king who steps back now and in a whirl of his silken coat turns around and marches out of the room.

 

He feels cold. No grievance, no anger, no disgust. Simply cold.

He sinks down to the wooden floor, on roots of ancient trees, and weeps.

 

When he stands up and dusts off his clothes, he doesn't know how much time has passed. If hours or days or decades, but it doesn't matter. Outside a guard nods at him and he asks when their king had last left the training room. Only a few hours ago is the answer.

He smooths back his hair, thanks the guard and slowly ascends the stairway to his chambers. He calls a servant and asks for food. After dining he goes to sleep.

If only he could sleep until every filthy desire was burnt out of his flesh and every sin was nothing but cinders. He wants to paint his face with these ashes, smear them into his hair and lay down in them. A bath of cinders.

 

It's still night when he awakes. The sheets have been tossed to the floor and he is covered in cold sweat. Quickly he cleans himself up and dresses. Only a light silver-white robe.

He finds himself in the great hall, the throne room. It is unguarded at night, but a lonely candle illuminates the antler-throne with its flickering flame. And on the throne sits his father, legs crossed, cup of wine in hand. Eyes closed.

Thranduil knows he is there, but he doesn't utter a word. So Legolas approaches, walks up the way to the throne and hesitantly climbs the stairs. He sits down to his feet and slowly leans on his father's legs. He can't breath. He feels so heavy.

Wordlessly he prays for redemption. For an answer to a question he dares not to ask. And for guidance and strength. If only Thranduil moved and provided what he needs so desperately. Told him how to find solace, how to live with their deed and not do it again. How to erase this slanderous, dreadful desire.

But Thranduil doesn't move nor does he say a word.

 

  
Before dawn Thranduil rises. He walks down the stairs and Legolas follows him.

There is silence between them, even as they reach his father's chambers. Thranduil dismisses the guards with a tilt of his head.

Inside he pours himself another cup of wine and gulps it down in one go. Legolas lights a few candles and then stands still until Thranduil nods towards the cushions and furs.

He sits down and breathes in the familiar scent of wood and earth, of the sweet water that runs from the walls on the right side into a small pond. His gaze wanders over that pond then to the antler framed bed and back to Thranduil who sinks down next to him. A freshly refilled cup of wine in hand. He sips it and stares into the distance.

He knows he should not but he reaches out, anyway. Takes hold of the cup gently and then puts it to the side.

Thranduil looks at him now, an eternity in the blue of his eyes and slowly Legolas leans in and kisses him. Just a press of lips against lips, then he dips his tongue into Thranduil's mouth and Thranduil sucks on it gently. They pull away.

In this moment he would do anything for him. It hurts to breath.

His father cups his face with his hands, palms warm against Legolas' skin. He closes his eyes. Sinks down until his head rests on his father's chest. One hand moves to the nape of his neck, the other strokes his hair. He wants to touch, but he just listens to his heartbeat, quick and loud. It is then that he realises.

 

He wants to weep, but he cannot. His father says nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from this song: youtube.com/watch?v=KltDxCXMd3w
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! Also, would love to know what you think of this story.
> 
> Also, say 'Hi' to me on [tumblr](http://lieutenant-mairon.tumblr.com) if you like.  
> 


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